Cat hair and truths
by Saryell
Summary: 'I have a proverbial cat. Not a real one, mind you. But it follows me around and sheds it's proverbial hair on my winter jumpers. It works like a neon sign flashing 'weird cat lady alert'. It's constant presence makes it - him, actually - an awkwardly real part of my life.' Set shortly after Molly started at St. Barts.


**Cat hair and truths**

_Disclaimer: nothing belongs to me_

I have a proverbial cat. Not a real one, mind you. But it follows me around and sheds it's proverbial hair on my winter jumpers. It works like a neon sign flashing 'weird cat lady alert'. It's constant presence makes it - him, actually - an awkwardly real part of my life. I fondly call him Toby.

While my social life isn't exactly what you would call successful - I have few friends, no family to speak of and my last relationship ended what feels like years ago - I am fairly on track in the professional department. After I finished school I quickly started university and finally became a pathologist at St. Barts just a few weeks ago, claiming a position rather high for my young age. Unfortunately, only I can see the merits of my job, it seems to be frowned upon by the general public to work with dead people, a reasoning I will never understand. I enjoy the peace and quiet I get working at the morgue and have never been keen on the rush and noises that the rest of the hospital can provide and all the other doctors seem to thrive on.

Just finishing up the post-mortem on a Mr. Ben Fletcher - blunt forced trauma to the head, looks like he has been accidentally hit by a bottle during a bar fight - I hear the wide double doors of the morgue burst open, disturbing the silence. The man appearing in the sterile room has absolutely nothing proverbial about him. He looks like the definition of unconventional: unruly dark hair, an angular face with high cheekbones that is too edgy to be attractive in a conventional way, a tall build and a stance that demands undivided attention as soon as he enters a room.  
My theory is confirmed as soon as he opens his mouth.  
'Murdered' he says, glancing at Mr. Fletcher. 'The angle in which the blow was delivered clearly shows the intention to kill' the stranger goes on, waving his elegant hands around, illustrating his words.  
'Most likely because his business partner wanted him out of the way to sell their company as you can tell by his watch and shoes. Obvious, really. You might want to change your theory of manslaughter on your chart, bit embarrassing to pass a mistake like this on to the police, don't you think? Of course, 'mistake' might just as well be every second policemen's middle name, the other half claiming 'dim-witted', for sure.' His deep baritone voice, reminding my of records my dad used to play on an old gramophone in his study, seems to reverberate somewhere in my brain, making me feel slightly light-headed.  
'The name is Sherlock Holmes by the way, I must be going, do have coffee ready when I am back. Black, two sugars, don't mess it up. Your medical degree must be good for something, although it hasn't taught you motor skills, judging by the hem of your lab coat.'  
And he rushes of, leaving me standing in the middle of my morgue - my sanctuary for heaven's sake, the only place where I ever felt confident and qualified - completely out of my depth.  
'Molly Hooper' I say lamely as a way of introducing myself, manners taught by my mum etched too deep into my conscience to just ignore them, even after being insulted by a complete stranger like this. By the time I get my tongue to work around the words and force them past my lips, the man, Sherlock Holmes, has of course already left the room, the double doors swinging shut behind him.  
I am sure that he is the kind of man that recognises the proverbial cat hair on my jumpers for what it is - after all, he did see the splatters of tomato sauce on my white lab coat that I somehow had hoped everybody would just confuse for blood stains I acquired in some heroic act of saving someones life. I do work at an hospital. But to him, it would be clear as day what the metaphorically furry state of my clothes stands for: a sign of my social awkwardness, a clear marker of my rather lonely life.

My tongue not being able to work as I want it to becomes kind of a thing over the next few months. Sherlock - as he insists I call him, something about 'Mr. Holmes' not being him but the British government, what ever that is supposed to mean - becomes a constant fixture in my once so peaceful morgue. In a whirlwind of energy and rudeness he storms into my lab, flinging open drawers, nearly unhinging cabinet doors and leaving everything in a general disarray that not even my interns can rival.  
I had been right about him being able to see things. Sherlock doesn't pay attention to people though, he sees their faults and weaknesses. His words are like razors, effortlessly cutting through every pretence anybody tries to keep up in his presence, carelessly revealing secrets and petty lies. He doesn't seem to care for anybody, nobody is safe from his sharp and merciless wit. I don't stand up to him. Nobody does.

As usual I am working the graveyard shift on a Saturday night. My colleagues are enjoying themselves with friends and family and Molly Hooper is as always good enough to cover at work. Sherlock comes bursting into the room like he did the first day we met and so many times after, yelling something about 'silly little brains', 'useless police' and 'the kneecaps, obviously'.  
I can see clearly that he has had a bad day and I already fear the wrath he will undoubtedly direct at anything that comes to close to the thunderstorm that is him in these moments, including me. While he never pays me any special amount of attention, his deductions concerning my life, while of course always correct, seem to have an especially harsh bite to them. The infatuation I have to admit feeling for him, something I blame on Sherlock being so different, so much more free than me in his brutally honest way that just doesn't care for any social conventions, doesn't exactly help to ease the sting of his venom.  
I confess to sometimes sitting at home after an especially draining display of his skills, huddled under a blanked in my favourite chair, trying rather hard not to cry. I would give a lot for my proverbial cat being real in this moments, soft fur under my fingers calming my agitated thoughts.  
'Ah, Molly, there you are. Of course, where else would you be.' he starts and I am bracing myself for the string of deductions that will undoubtedly follow. 'Dressed in a bulky jumper with fruit print, so hardly planning to go anywhere. Really Molly, are you surprised you haven't been asked out by anybody in the last, what is it, thirteen and a half months? If you want to call that coffee you had with the bloke from patient services a date, I hope you are aware that he just took you out to get back at his cheating girlfriend. But you can't be surprised, do you really expect that anybody will fall for a pathologist that sits in a cellar talking to dead people while she cuts them open? Hardly an attractive job, don't you think?' Sherlock fires off with a speed almost to fast to follow. Almost. I still catch the insults he liberally directs at both my personal and professional life.  
'You could as well get a cat while you are at it, I can practically see the proverbial cat hair on your cherry-covered jumper already.' he adds, saying out loud what I myself had been secretly dreading for years. This is the last straw needed to make the heap he had been adding to the poor camel's back that is my self esteem just a little bit too heavy to carry.  
For a long moment, I can just stare at him. His words, true as ever, seem to have hit every weak spot I have, finding their target like bullets fired from the gun of a well-trained shooter.  
'Why do you always have to hurt me?' I finally ask quietly, tears rolling down my cheeks. I am embarrassed, I haven't cried like this since my father died and I hate myself for letting him have this effect on me. Him, who cares so little. Him, who doesn't even see me.  
Stumbling towards the coat rack I get my jacket and my bag, hitting over petri dishes on the counter as I try to navigate trough a haze of tears, for once not caring about my clumsiness and leaving the mess on the floor. With a last look back at Sherlock who it standing with his back turned to me, true to his fashion of not bothering with human sentiment, I leave through the side entrance of the hospital, heading home to hide under my blanket.

I must have dozed of as I am startled awake by a rap at my door. Judging by the light grey sky I can see trough my living room window it is already morning. I get up, expecting it to be my neighbour from downstairs wanting to borrow some eggs or a cup of sugar.  
As I swing my front door open I am however faced with a slightly ruffled looking Sherlock. Before I can say anything he slips past me into my flat, neatly draping his Belstaff over the backrest of my couch and adding his blue scarf on top. He has a box in his hands that I hadn't noticed before.  
'Tea?' is all I can say and I mentally curse my manners for kicking in again at the most inconvenient moment. I know Sherlock would deserve to be screamed and maybe even hit at but I just can't muster the strength, still drained from my outburst at the morgue.  
While I busy myself with the kettle, putting out cups, sugar and milk, Sherlock takes a seat at my kitchen table. He looks out of place in the little room, his elegant shirt and suit a stark contrast to my simple furniture. I place his filled cup in front of him, sitting down myself and stirring my tea to avoid looking at him. As usual I am tongue-tied in his presence, I just can't come up with anything to say.  
Finally, Sherlocks clears his throat, seeming uncomfortable and out of his element.  
'I see no point in dressing up in frilly skirts and ridiculous heels as women seem to think they should and why anybody would want to be a saleswoman in some boutique if they could have a job as important and interesting as yours is beyond me. I was merely referring to the way it is looked upon by general society, a group I am sure you are aware that I care for very little.' Sherlock says, looking almost timid and not meeting my eyes.  
'And I do like cats. Highly intelligent, very independent. There is nothing wrong in preferring them to a human partner. I think anyone should. And do you really want to spend your life with somebody as boring as whats-his-name from patient services, not being able to talk about your work because he would faint at the mention of your last autopsy?'  
'So just for the record', he adds, sliding to the edge of his chair, the now cold tea forgotten in his cup, briefly touching my arm to make sure that he has my full attention.  
'I see you, Molly Hooper. It would be an insult to your brains if I wouldn't be honest with you, if I wouldn't tell you the truth, even if I come across as rude sometimes.'  
'Well, more than sometimes' he adds as I scoff. 'But I do see you for the person you are. A woman too friendly to put me in my place, a woman who is brilliant at what she does and a woman who doesn't care for what society tells her to work at or to dress like. I am afraid I am not capable to be as kind to you as you would deserve for possessing those qualities but I promise I will try.'  
He opens the box he had placed on the kitchen table and a furry head appears, pointy ears turning to catch the noise from the street below, emerald eyes blinking to adjust to the sudden brightness.  
'Molly Hooper. Meet Toby.'


End file.
